Sandra Belloni — Volume 1 eBook

CHAPTER VIII

The windows of Brookfield were thrown open to the
air of May, and bees wandered into the rooms, gold
spots of sunshine danced along the floors. The
garden-walks were dazzling, and the ladies went from
flower-bed to flower-bed in broad garden hats that
were, as an occasional light glance flung at a window-pane
assured Adela, becoming. Sunshine had burst on
them suddenly, and there was no hat to be found for
Emilia, so Wilfrid placed his gold-laced foraging-cap
on her head, and the ladies, after a moment’s
misgiving, allowed her to wear it, and turned to observe
her now and then. There was never pertness in
Emilia’s look, which on the contrary was singularly
large and calm when it reposed: perhaps her dramatic
instinct prompted her half-jaunty manner of leaning
against the sunny corner of the house where the Chinese
honeysuckle climbed. She was talking to Wilfrid.
Her laughter seemed careless and easy, and in keeping
with the Southern litheness of her attitude.

“To suit the cap; it’s all to suit the
cap,” said Adela, the keen of eye. Yet,
critical as was this lady, she acknowledged that it
was no mere acting effort to suit the cap.

The philosopher (I would keep him back if I could)
bids us mark that the crown and flower of the nervous
system, the head, is necessarily sensitive, and to
that degree that whatsoever we place on it, does, for
a certain period, change and shape us. Of course
the instant we call up the forces of the brain, much
of the impression departs but what remains is powerful,
and fine-nerved. Woman is especially subject
to it. A girl may put on her brother’s
boots, and they will not affect her spirit strongly;
but as soon as she puts on her brother’s hat,
she gives him a manly nod. The same philosopher
who fathers his dulness on me, asserts that the modern
vice or fastness (’Trotting on the Epicene Border,’
he has it) is bred by apparently harmless practices
of this description. He offers to turn the current
of a Republican’s brain, by resting a coronet
on his forehead for just five seconds.

Howsoever these things be, it was true that Emilia’s
feet presently crossed, and she was soon to be seen
with her right elbow doubled against her head as she
leaned to the wall, and the little left fist stuck
at her belt. And I maintain that she had no
sense at all of acting Spanish prince disguised as
page. Nor had she an idea that she was making
her friend Wilfrid’s heart perform to her lightest
words and actions, like any trained milk-white steed
in a circus. Sunlight, as well as Wilfrid’s
braided cap, had some magical influence on her.
He assured her that she looked a charming boy, and
she said, “Do I?” just lifting her chin.

The gardener objected that he really must make the
lawn smooth. Emilia called to Adela, who came,
and hearing the case, said: “Now this is
nice of you. I like you to love daisies and
wish to protect them. They disfigure a lawn,
you know.” And Adela stooped, and picked
one, and called it a pet name, and dropped it.